Pieces Of Gold
by No Time To Cry
Summary: Out of a fear that their band, their family, will reject them now they keep it hidden. But when a simple mistake is made, a single wave of the hand, and Nathan finds out what the two really did in California...It all comes crashing down.


A/N: It was written for a challenge given to me by Misgiving Writer and MidnightNimh on the Writing Junkie Forum. It's a pretty cool place and you guys should go check it out, make it nice and active.

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><p>Eight days. That was how long it had lasted. Some how, some way, not a single member of Dethklok had noticed the new addition to their wardrobe. Even Ofdensen, who was normally so quick when it came to spying things like this, hadn't spotted the glinting pieces of gold that the two boys now wore on their hands.<p>

And now, with a single wave of his hand, Pickles has completely ruined everything.

"Pickles. What's that, uh, _thing_ on your hand?" Nathan askes, dark brown eyes locked onto his drummer's hand.

"It's nothin'." Pickles says hurridly, dropping the hand not holding his beer down and shoving it in his pocket.

Nathan continues to stare. "Uh, I'm pretty sure that wasn't 'nothing'."

Pickles shakes his head, just a little too quick to be natural. "Nope. It ain't nothin'."

Which is a lie, of course. Probably the worst lie that Pickles has ever told - and that is saying a lot, considering all the times that he's lied to Murderface. But it is Nathan standing there and the drummer just can't get himself to tell the frontman the truth.

The dark haired singer furrowes his eyebrows and frownes at Pickles. "Pickles. That was, uh, that was a ring wasn't it? Like, a _wedding ring?"_

Pickles opens his mouth but can't think of anything to say. And it's so _stupid_ that he can't because, really, he's never cared about what the rest of the band thought before. Why should he start caring about it now? Why does Nathan's opinion, and Skwisgaar's and Toki's and Charles', mean so much right then? His mouth closes with a clack.

Nathan doesn't stop staring.

So Pickles downs the rest of his beer, slams the bottle down on the table, and leaves the room.

XXXX_XXXX_XXXX_XXXX

The rhythmic sound of fabric ripping fills the living room. The tv, showing a documentary on Civil War, has been muted. Skwisgaar stopped complaining about the lack of entertainment almost four minutes ago. Now the blond is simply sitting in the overly stuffed armchair, staring at his bassist.

Said bassist is glowering at the couch arm. Deep red fabric tears and stuffing flies everywhere as Murderface digs the blade of his knife into the plush material again.

Rip.

Tear.

Stab.

Repeat.

His mind is a whirl. Thoughts of the week before, of that God-damned trip to California, fill his mind. How the concert was just as brutal as always and Pickles was just a little less drunk than usual. And how completely taken aback he had been when Pickles asked him.

_I dunno, dood, I think it's a pretty great idea. I mean, it ain't like we gotta tell no body or nothin'. It could just be the two of us an' you wanna, I mean._

And, now, Murderface is just _stuck_. He doesn't know what to do or how to keep things going. Because it's all supposed to be different after you get married, isn't it? Things are supposed to start changing now, or at least that's what everyone has always said. His grandmother and that math teacher from highschool and all of the groupies that were always shouting something or another about marriage.

He slams his knife down into the arm of the couch again, just as the Swedish guitarist clears his throat. Murderface's head snaps up and he narrows his blue eyes at Skwisgaar.

"Moiderface, what ams you doinks? I's waiteds for yous to turns back the noise on and you ams just sittinks there beinks a dildos abouts it." Skwisgaar asks frowning.

For a moment, Murderface just sits there and scowls. Then he forcibly yanks his knife free of the couch and flings it across the room. The too-sharp blade digs itself into the wall, small bits of plaster falling onto the black carpet.

"Fuck thish!" Murderface snaps. He tears his angry gaze away from a now thoroughly confused Skwisgaar and jerks out of the chair, bits of stuffing falling from his lap as he does so, and then he turns and stomps out of the room.

He doesn't notice when Nathan comes in right after he leaves.

XXXX_XXXX_XXXX_XXXX

"So..." Pickles voice trails off as he stares at Murderface, not really sure what the other man wants him to say. Or do. Or if the other man wants him to leave the hot tub completely - but that isn't about to happen, even if the man he's now married to _asks_ for it, because, damnit, he was there first!

Murderface just grunts at him and pops the top of the bottle of the beer he's holding. The cap goes flying over his shoulder, landing in the overgrowing collection of bottle-tops and can-tabs that litter the floor.

There's silence for a moment, where they both just stare at each other, before Pickles' shrugs and lets himself sink back into the steaming water. Eyes closing half-way, the drummer swishes his own half-empty bottle of beer once before taking another swig - without warning swinging around in the hot-tub to hurl the bottle as far away from as he can. It hits the wall on the other side of the room and explodes, sending a shower of amber liqued and glass billowing to the floor.

And, yes, it might have been because he was more than a little drunk. It might even have been the lingering effects of the high he'd been on before he came out to the jacuzzi. But mostly it was because Pickles is already sick of dodging around the rest of the band and watching what he said. Mostly, it is because he is already sick of _hiding_ because what they had done isn't brutal.

"Thish ish really shtupid." Murderface snaps. The beer that he'd brought into the tub with him is already empty and, without turning, he tosses it over his shoulders. The second bottle slams into the wall just inches from the first.

Pickles is still narrowing his eyes at the now dripping spot on the wall. But he grunts and nods anyways, already knowing what the bassist is talking about.

"I mean, it ischn't like I care what they all think." Murderface continues. "They can all go fuck themshelvesch and it would be the schame to me."

Pickles gives another nod, hazed over green eyes still locked onto the amber liqued running down the cobbled wall. "I know what ya mean, dood. Give meh another one of those bottles!"

"Yeah, anothor one of -wait. What?" Murderface turns in his seat to face the red-headed man, eyes narrowed in a critical way. "Are you even paying attenschion to me, Picklsche?"

"Sure I am, Will. I just - I just wanna see this again." Pickles is too drunk to notice, or maybe it's that he's too high or too hung-over to notice, but the name slips out of his mouth without him meaning to say it. Or even noticing that it was said, actually.

But it was. And that simple fact sends a jolt through Murderface like none other. Just like in California, just like all those times before then, just like it always will. No one else in the band will call him anything but Murderface. No one but Pickles - and, for the longest time, the drummer only did that when he was stone-cold sober.

So he musters up a scowl and stops fiddling with the simple golden ring on his finger, wriggles around in the hot tub enough that warm waves of water go careening over the side, and eventually manages to find the spot that Pickles left the six-pack sitting.

XXXX_XXXX_XXXX_XXXX

"Alright, alright, I'm here!" Murderface snaps, doing his best to swagger into the dining room. It's a failed attempt though, because Toki has left one of his empty candy bowls in the middle of the floor and he ends up having to scramble about to keep from falling.

Toki laughs and Murderface, once he gets his balance back, glares at him. Then he blinks, confused, because Pickles isn't the only one in the kitchen like he was supposed to be. Instead, the rest of the band are spread out in seats around the table, Ofdensen standing at one end holding a red folder.

The whole thing sent off alarms.

"Hey, uh, guysch. What'sch goin' on?" Murdrface asks, warily. His eyes flicker over the table, resting on Pickles - who's light green eyes are wide and practically _screaming_ at him to _go, go go!_

Not stopping to think twice about it, Murderface turned on his heel...and came face to chest with Nathan.

"Go, uh, go sit down." Nathan grumbled, pointing a finger towards the table.

Mouth pulling down into a frown, Murderface crosses both arms over his chest and gloweres back at the front-man. "Why schould I?"

"William. Please. Just take a seat. This won't take more than a few minutes." Charles says, motioning to an empty seat at the abnormally large table.

For a moment, Murderface just stands there and stares at Nathan. He doesn't like this whole being told what to do thing, especially when he isn't given a reason. He never has. It makes him feel small and as though the one giving the order thinks their better than him. None the less, he eventually relents and stalks across the room to the table. He does not, however, sit in the spot that Charles told him to.

Instead he sits down inbetween Pickles and an empty chair.

Nathan takes a seat too and Charles clears his throat. "Ahem, right. Thank you both for coming up here. Pickles. William. This shouldn't take too long."

"What schouldn't take 'too long'?" Murderface asks, arms still folded over his chest. "Becausche I've got schit to do schtill."

Beside him, Pickles shifts. He has both hands in his lap, the left one over top of the right, and is frowning slightly - but there's worry mixed in with that frown, because this isn't how he had wanted things to go. "They wanna know 'bout my ring."

The bassist opens his mouth. Once, twice, three times. Then he closes it without saying a word and goes back to scowling at Nathan. Somehow, he knows that it's the front-man's fault. It's _always_ the front-man's fault.

"Yes." Charles gives a brisk nod. The folder he's holding contains papers stating the name, address, and several other vital bits of information on Pickles' new wife. He hasn't read it yet though. A part of him is still hoping that the drummer will just tell him her name and then can settle things that way. "Your ring. It is, ah, a wedding ring, isn't it?"

Pickles squirms in his seat for a moment. Then he sighs loudly because he knows, just as well as Murderface does, that Charles will find out even if no one tells him. "Yeuh. So what?"

"I am just going to assume that it is from our last concert." Charles says, setting the folder down on the table in front of him. "Am I correct?"

Again, Pickles doesn't answer right away. When he does it is without looking at the rest of his band. "Yeuh."

"And are you going to tell me who it is you married?" Charles questions, one eyebrow raised slightly. There's something almost like amusement in his eyes - because Pickles is not someone he ever thought he would have this conversation with. Toki, maybe. But never Pickles.

Murderface crosses his arms over his chest when Pickles glances at him but doesn't say a word. He can see that the drummer isn't sure what to say. That Pickles isn't sure whether he should tell the band or not.

So he decides for the older man.

Without thinking he slams his hand, his right hand, down on the table in front of him. Murderface's heart is racing and, later, he knows he will regret this decision. But right now he is acting on impulse and that impulse is telling him to just say it.

"God, you all are really schtupid. And you're all really blind too. Can't even schee what'sch right in front of your fasches." Murderface sneers at them all, chartreuse eyes narrowing in distaste.

"What ams you goinks on about?" Skwisgaar demands.

And, for a moment, Murderface knows that they are all thinking the same thing. Then Nathan spies the flash of gold on Murderface's ring-finger and starts to gape and the rest of the band follows suit.

Beside the bassist, even Pickles stares. Not out of anger, because he had been about to just tell them all himself, but out of surprise and gratefullness. Never in Pickles wildest dreams would he have imagined Murderface to be the one to out them both.

Said bassist's heart is still hammering loudly in his chest when their manager clears his throat.

"William?" Charles asks, a hint of sceptiscim drifting into his voice. Then he closes his eyes, gives a small shake of his head, and when he opens them again he's all business. "I don't even want to know how much alcohol the two of you had to consume to accomplish that. Don't worry. I will have the, ah, the divorce papers filed by tomorrow morning."

"Divorce papers?" Pickles echoes.

Charles nods. "Like I said, neither of you have to worry. I can guaruntee that this will all be very hush-hush."

Toki lets out a giggle. "Ams you both wearinks dresses?" Another giggle. "Or was Moiderface de brides?"

Murderface gives an incoherant sputter, though he isn't sure who has offended him the most. "I didn't wear a dresch! Wearing dresches ish gay!"

There's silence then - because there's rage in the bassists voice and hate in the drummers eyes and no one but the two men can even begin to picture what the day of the wedding was really like, with stammered words and shaking hands and doubt in both their minds. No one points out that marrying another man _is_ gay.

"And, eh, you don't have ta do that either Afdensen." Pickles says, tounge feeling thick in his mouth. He can feel everyone's eyes on him. "The divorce thing. It ain't really needed."

Another lapse of silence. This time it is filled with an awkward air as, slowly but surely, each member of Dethklok works out the meaning behind Pickles words and the sudden reddness in their two members faces.

Nathan is the first one to speak. "You, uh, you two did that on purpose?"

"What'sch it matter to you?" Murderface spits, that tell-tale glimmer of insanity flickering through his eyes.

Nathan is quick to shake his head. "Nothing. It, uh, it really doens't mean anything I guess. Uh, marriage is pretty brutal."

After a moment, Skwisgaar gives a slow nod. "Nat'an ams right. Marriage ams a brutal thing. Reals gay. But ams still beinks brutal."

"Congratulamations!" Toki says, grinning.

Charles gives them both a half smile as he picks the folder back up. "I would do your best to keep this from the public, boys. Your fans may not take kindly to it." Then he's gone from the room, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him.

And Pickles tilts his head back and laughs. A long, slightly mad sounding laugh.

He had been so worried. Worried that the rest of the band would get offended or disgusted. That their music would suffer because of it. That they would be kicked out. That _Murderface wouldn't want to say anything_.

And now it was all out in the open and no one gives a shit about it either way.


End file.
